


Dunkles Verona

by ellenoruschka



Series: Viva Verona [2]
Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Boris Pfeifer as Escalus, Canonical Character Death, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Gen, Post-Canon, Uwe Kröger as Death, Verona is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka/pseuds/ellenoruschka
Summary: Prince Escalus hates chess.





	Dunkles Verona

**Author's Note:**

> The title is in German and can be translated as "Dark Verona".
> 
> This is my own translation of my Russian fanfic. it is also published here: https://ellenoruschka.deviantart.com/art/Dunkles-Verona-Dark-Verona-727992451  
> The original of this text is published here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6440879
> 
> Boris Pfeiffer as Escalus:  
> 1) Verona - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp4gvpxnTvA  
> 2) Verona 2 (reprise) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aK_wO0_pVrM 
> 
> Uwe Kröger as der Tod/Death:  
> 1) At 03:48: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lx7IZtjpvUo  
> 2) Die Schatten werden länger: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9hFnlJIMNY

He rubs his face tiredly and buries his fingers in his hair. People of Verona are used to seeing him calm and collected, and he is used to meeting their expectations. Dark dashes of eyebrows drawn together, firm thin lips, commanding gestures – such is the noble Escalus, Prince of Verona, in the eyes of his citizens. Only once did he show weakness – several years ago, as he knelt by the lifeless body of his own nephew and closed Mercutio’s eyelids with a trembling hand. Yes, he acted every bit as the impartial and fair judge he had always been; but those who were at the city square that day never forgot his gaze, horrifying in its calmness, and his impassive, expressionless “I have to believe you.”

His heavy silvery cape that hinders his movements during the day is now dangling carelessly from an old armchair, and the metal of the epaulettes is glinting in the uneven firelight. His black shirt with a firm collar is unbuttoned, and the night draught from the Adige, flowing in through the open windows, feels cool against his exposed neck and sunken chest. The Prince breathes in deeply, as if drinking in the damp air, and then exhales just as slowly.

Lean shoulders stoop tiredly, hands grip the edge of the windowsill; shoulder blades protrude, razor-sharp, through the stretched black fabric of the shirt. A proper nobleman should not slouch like this; but in the dead of night, when the noise of the city dies down, he allows himself a moment of weakness.

Damp temple pressed against the wooden frame, he is not a grand seigneur, not a proud prince, not a powerful leader – he is just Escalus, a weak man, tired, shattered, pinned to the ground by a backbreaking burden. Short dark hair streaked with grey, pale drawn face, high forehead crossed with deep creases…

There, out there, his city sleeps. His bloodthirsty beauty, his wrathful Verona, full of enmity, and folly, and ferocious madness – he sees it in the eyes of men, reads it in the smiles of women, hears it in the laughter of children… How does one love these people when they are blind and deaf to everything but hatred? How does one stop their strife?

How does one live on a chessboard, being neither black nor white?..

Prince Escalus hates chess.

But he knows how to play it.

***

His eyes are burning fiercely after a long day of paperwork; his neck is complaining, and a needle-sharp pain has found its way to the back of his head; all he wants now is to drop down into his favourite armchair and relax, but…

 “You are still here, noble Escalus,” as usual, his night guest enters through the locked doors unannounced.

The Prince is in no hurry to turn around, allowing himself one last moment or weakness. He has no right for more. If anyone could see him right now, they would find mortal fear and resignation in his red-rimmed eyes – but no one is there to witness it. And as Escalus turns to his guest, his face is calm once again.

“As long as you are here, I will be here as well,” he nods politely, gesturing to the two armchairs beside the fireplace. “Pray have a seat.”

“A presumptuous statement.” A serene voice, a half-mocking stare; a face that is almost creepy in its perfection; a nonhuman gracefulness of languid movements. Ghostly fingers hover above the chessboard.

“Were you expecting a different reply?” Escalus settles down into the second armchair, glances over the perfectly set chessmen. “White moves first. Please.”

“Once again I urge you to give up,” his opponent watches him with something almost akin to compassion, touching his pale lips with a slender, feminine finger. “Your fight is fruitless, you know it yourself. You will grow tired one day, noble Escalus, and then you will find yourself powerless against me.”

“Then I will fight as long as I can.” The Prince presses his hands firmly against his weary eyes – no point in hiding his fatigue from someone who can see right through him. One mask down. “Your move.”

“Fool,” his guest smiles at him, almost affectionately. “Such a stubborn fool, just like your city. So be it, noble Escalus, but remember: if you win, it does not bring you victory; if you lose, you are the only one to blame.”

White pawn at e4. The game has begun. Someone’s life is at stake, and the prince knows not whose it is – a man’s or a woman’s, a Montague’s or a Capulet’s… No matter.  It is just another human being, imperfect and sinful; another soul corrupted by hatred, undeserving of mercy or compassion.

Another life he has no right to lose.

“Give up,” his guest suggests, flicking a black rook off the board to put her next to several other black figurines and a single white pawn. He cocks his head as if wondering: so what will you do now, clever one? Something inhumanly frightening is there in this simple gesture. Escalus wants to look away, wants to simply abandon the game and flee… but he cannot. There is too much at stake.

“Just a life,” his opponent reminds him, as if reading his mind. “I’ll tell you a secret: it is not yours. Not even of one of your numerous relatives. Do you really need it that much?”

Escalus chooses not to reply and slowly moves his last pawn forward, shielding the king and the queen. Fierce pain burns in his temples; the black fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat, sticks to his back unpleasantly, and the touch of the cold night air makes the Prince shiver. In the morning he will again wake up weak and ill: it is far from easy for a mere mortal to bear the closeness of the otherworldly creature that is his night guest. 

“Why torture yourself so, o noble Escalus?” wonders the man in white, casually picking up the black pawn that has just been moved and bringing it close to his face to examine the intricate carving. “Check.”

Tenth check in this last hour; each of them white. Escalus smiles to himself bitterly: he had one single chance of winning this losing game, and now this chance is all but gone. It would have been so much easier to give up, to stop this self-inflicted suffering… To stop wearing out his body and soul by these torturous battles in the dead of night…

But he has no right to give up.

His guest seems to sense his inner turmoil.

“You don’t even know what you’re fighting for. What if the one who you are trying to save tonight plunges a knife in your back tomorrow?”

“It will be their choice then,” breathes Escalus, moving his king away from danger. “Not mine”.

“You do not fear death?”

“My life is nothing. Their lives are everything.”

“You will never receive their gratitude. Check.”

“I don’t need their gratitude,” who should he sacrifice, the rook or the queen?

“What do you need then? Love? Respect? Your people fear and hate you. And you – you hate them, even if you won’t admit it.”

Oh, they hate even themselves; is it not natural for them to hate him, too? Sighing, Escalus looks up from the chessboard and meets his opponent’s icy blue gaze unflinchingly.

“I do not have to love them to be responsible for them.”

“Such noble commitment does honour to you,” his opponent snickers. The black queen joins the rest of the lost pieces.  “Now, enough of this running around, mortal fool. You’ve already lost.”

The Prince of Verona looks back at the board – and smiles for the first time in what seems like forever, feeling as if a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“Wrong.” 

His opponent’s eyes are empty, expressionless; and it should be scary, it should be deadly… but Escalus is smiling, and his smile is no less frightening than the silence of his ghostly guest.

“Check. And mate.”

It is eerily silent after that.

And in this absolute silence, the white king, touched by no one, falls to the side, clattering against the chessboard, leaving the black king standing.

The man in white, on the contrary, rises from his chair and is suddenly looming above the still seated Escalus. Icy fingers touch his vulnerable neck – but the Prince is too weak to move: a bone-deep fatigue is upon him, pressing him into the leather of his armchair, stripping him of his will…

The voice of his defeated guest is like the rustling of autumn leaves in the wind, fading into the silence of the room.

“You win this time. But it will not bring you victory.”

And Escalus manages to summon enough strength to look the retreating Death in the face.

“I seek no victory.”

***

In the morning, his head is pounding terribly and his whole body is sore… but there, beyond the open window, his Verona is waking up. Yells and shouts of traders fill her sunlit streets, accompanied by children’s laughter, the rhythmical clanging patterns of horses’ hooves against the pavement, the groaning of loaded carts and heavy carriages… Escalus hears it all, sees it all – knows it all; and his city, so beautiful, so macabre – so alive – his Verona knows him. She knows what battles he fights in the dead of night – for her, sleeping and defenseless, and for her people. 

So he makes himself get up from the bed – as usual, he does not remember how he reached it last night; shivers from the feeling of icy water against his fevered skin; sends away the servants and gets dressed himself… The tall collar of his black shirt encircles his neck; his silvery cape is a familiar weight on his shoulders.

And as he who has pledged himself to her safety steps out into the street, Verona embraces him, enveloping his worn body into her warm morning air, and kisses him gratefully with the summer breeze – and he lets her, and his lips curve in an almost nonexistent smile.

An elderly governess curtsies respectfully as Escalus passes by, and her young ward, a tiny girl with curly red hair, scrambles to do the same. Her bright smile catches his eye, and the Prince’s steps falter for a split second. And there it is; there is Verona herself, whispering him in the ear, “Look, my Escalus, look; here is the soul you saved tonight; here is the life you stood up for to Death itself. My noble one, my selfless one, please forgive me for this torture; you know there is no other way…”

True, there is no other way. Not in Verona; not in this city of blood, and strife, and hate… But sometimes hate goes hand in hand with love.

Prince Escalus hates chess.

But he loves his city.

And that is why there is a flame crackling in his fireplace every night, and the elaborate ivory figurines cast uneven shadows across the squares of the massive chessboard.

And the city lives.

 

27/01/18


End file.
